


Reichen-wait-I-take-that-back

by Kitschgeist



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 15:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13390422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitschgeist/pseuds/Kitschgeist
Summary: “I must push Professor Moriarty down a waterfall in Switzerland. Then, I shall fake my death,” Holmes said to me.“Why?” I asked.





	Reichen-wait-I-take-that-back

“I must push Professor Moriarty down a waterfall in Switzerland. Then, I shall fake my death,” Holmes said to me.

“Why?” I asked.

We were enjoying a cordial chat at Baker Street, though the air was stale and it was unreasonably dark because Holmes insisted on bolting the windows and drawing the curtains on an already overcast afternoon.

“I am certain he feels the same way about me, because I left this letter pinned to the inside of the door to his flat in mid-February.” He handed me the letter. I could not read it in the dark.

“I cannot read it in the dark,” I said.

“Ah, indeed!” He left my side. Some crashing sounds later, he returned bearing a lamp. I then saw that the paper was marred by rust-coloured blotches. It read:

 _Dear Mr Moriarty,_  
_Will you take the plunge with me?  
_ _SH_

“And this is his reply,” he said, giving me another, similarly soiled paper, “which I found, together with my message, in the mouth of the horse’s head that was thrown through the kitchen window a day later.” Here I loosened my grip on the documents. The response read:

 _Yes._  
_Signed,  
_ _Prof. James H. Moriarty, PhD FRS_

“Luckily, Mrs Hudson was out when it was delivered. I showed it to the Yard, but they think it is a forgery. The idea is ridiculous, I could never have dreamt up his methods! He is a master at his art,” Holmes said with an alarming wistfulness. “So you see, Watson, our engagement is finalised.”

“Well, congratulations,” I said. “But that does not answer my question. Push him over a waterfall and fake your death? Why go to such lengths?”

“We have tried to settle our differences through other means, and this is the only way left,” Holmes said solemnly.

“Other means? You never told me about those.”

“You do understand I am not proud of some of the things I have done in the name of ridding the world of crime.”

“Your secrets are safe with me, my dear Holmes. I keep my unpublished accounts of your career in a single despatch box at Cox and Co., along with my monograph on Ming dynasty pottery. Just the one, because I definitely do not have anywhere else to store my writings. And no one is interested in them, not in the least my publishers.”

“You know that’s what I like to hear, my dear Watson. Alright, I shall enlighten you. Moriarty and I have thrice challenged each other, under the agreement that the loser would surrender. But this did not come to pass,” Holmes grumbled.

“Why, the nerve of him!” I exclaimed.

“Actually, it was me who lost.”

“Holmes!” I refused to believe my friend could be bested by that vile man. But I did believe he would demand endless re-matches if he was. “How is that possible? Surely he resorted to some trickery?”

“No. To his credit, he played entirely fair. I lost because he picked the means of challenge. The first match was a staring contest. He must truly be part-reptile, they have transparent eyelids. Not once did he blink!” Holmes said resentfully.

“The second,” he continued, “was pub trivia. It was fiendishly difficult. The topics were all outside my areas of interest. How was I to know Nicolaus Copernicus did not discover copper?

“I could not accept his victory, and told him so. He was so infuriatingly confident, he immediately offered to go against me at darts. I thought it was my chance,” said Holmes, pointedly glancing at the wall across us. Pinned onto it was a photograph of an assembly of members of the Royal Society. A scattering of darts centred on one man, who had barely made it into the picture. His face was almost entirely torn out.

“But it was a tie, Watson!” groaned Holmes. “And the next time I visited his rooms, he had laid out a tattered copy of my first appearance in  _The Illustrated Police News_  on his writing-desk, by way of explanation for his skills.”

“You would have made a difficult target in that,” I remarked. In the engraving, which ran under the headline “Inspector Lestrade Solves Drury Lane Kidnapping”, Holmes was but an arm and leg sticking out from behind the inspector.

“I think I understand now,” I said, after a moment. “To defeat him, you must stop him from relying on his own strengths.”

“Exactly. And so I must wrestle this weedy old man over a cliff.”

“But faking your own death?”

“The remnants of Moriarty’s criminal empire, its top tiers, would come after me - and possibly my associates, including you - if I were known to have survived,” Holmes explained.

“Are you saying,” I began, a troubling line of thought occurring to me, “that this empire can function without its leader, who is a man willing to duel you over a waterfall, and the next in line to his post are likely to succeed where he repeatedly failed?”

“That is…” Holmes stopped. I saw his features assume a pensive expression in the lamplight. “Yes, that is how it seems. Watson, your presence is invaluable. You are a refractor of light!”

“‘Conductor’, I believe you said before?”

“No, I mean I now see this from a completely different angle. Thank you. I must rethink my strategy. I wonder if Moriarty has changed his locks again…”

“Best of luck with that,” I replied. “But I admit I was quite fascinated by your earlier plan. There was an epic quality to it.”

“Watson,” Holmes shook his head fondly. “You and your romanticism. You may write about it, if you must.”


End file.
